


thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill

by skatingsplits



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, General Filth, Internalized Misogyny, Prostitution Roleplay, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, madonna whore complex stuff i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28648722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatingsplits/pseuds/skatingsplits
Summary: Not a single aspect of the hotel she’s in this evening could charitably be described as tasteful or elegant. Although Narcissa had tried to look nowhere but the floor in the corridors, she’d seen enough to be sure that she’d rather perform Unforgiveable Curses on herself than allow any of the other patrons to cross the threshold of Malfoy Manor. It's entirely beneath her, beneath them, and the worst part is, Narcissa can’t remember the last time she felt so utterly ecstatic.
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Title from Shakespeare's "Sonnet 89".  
> 2\. My usual warning to check the tags, just in case. As well as sex stuff, there's definitely a fair amount of internalised misogyny and a little general casual misogyny going on here completely unchecked, and some sex worker-negative language. I think it makes sense for these characters and the world they live in, but their views are definitely not mine.

Narcissa has exceedingly fond memories of her honeymoon. She’d been warned by long-widowed aunts and smug newly-married schoolfriends that things were likely to be anticlimactic at best and downright hellish at worst, so she’d walked down the aisle in a much more pessimistic frame of mind than anyone who’d seen the radiant smile pasted on her face would have guessed. It didn’t help that she could have counted on one hand the number of times she’d actually been alone with the supercilious groom waiting for her at the altar. All she’d known of Lucius was what she’d managed to glean from a handful of stilted dinner parties, volleying between their parents’ homes until he’d very stiffly asked her to marry him behind the rhododendrons at Malfoy Manor. It wasn’t exactly that Narcissa had ever had any intention of refusing him, quite the opposite. After all the... _unpleasantness_ with Andromeda, she wouldn’t have dared. And then she’d spent hours simply staring at her engagement ring, turning it back and forth in front of the fire to watch it glimmer as she fantasised about being married. Being a wife. Being a wife, Narcissa had thought, would be the easy bit. It seemed to be largely a matter of planning parties, ordering servants around and having babies, all three of which she'd been certain she would excel at. It was the thought of being a _bride_ that had made an unpleasant storm stir in her chest as she’d pinned her veil to her head on the morning of her wedding, critically scrutinising the mirror for any hint of a flaw. 

As it turned out, however, there had been no need to worry. Three weeks in Monaco had been more than sufficient to thoroughly acquaint herself with her new husband. Really, it had only taken a night. To the present day, it makes her skin prickle to remember how she’d sat up in bed at four in the morning, flushed and dazed, silky sheets brushing against one thigh and Lucius’s equally soft hair against the other, marvelling at the fact that she had ever thought herself happy before. 

When Lucius had insisted during their betrothal that the honeymoon plans were to be left to him, Narcissa and her mother had balked. She’d known that he had exquisite taste- he'd chosen her, after all- but so many men of their class would have been as much at a loss arranging a suitable honeymoon as they would in a wrestling match with a Peruvian Vipertooth. Once again, however, Narcissa’s worries had proved to be entirely unfounded. The hotel had been paradise; the furnishings were elegant, the food exquisite, the staff courteous, every aspect of their trip had been decadent and delicious. There are dozens of memories Narcissa still frequently replays, memories of Lucius pressing her into sheets so soft she could have been floating through clouds and not retreating until he had made it very clear how divine he’d found every single inch of her in the flickering golden candlelight. 

In short, everything had been as different from tonight as it could possibly be. 

Not a single aspect of the hotel she’s in this evening could charitably be described as tasteful or elegant. The leering Muggle at the reception had been the furthest thing from courteous as he’d handed her the room key with grubby paws and his eyes fixed on her chest. And although Narcissa had tried to look nowhere but the floor in the corridors, she’d seen enough to be sure that she’d rather perform Unforgiveable Curses on herself than allow any of the other patrons to cross the threshold of Malfoy Manor. Her view of the mirror opposite the bed is blocked by Lucius’s body now, but when she’d examined her reflection before he arrived, the surface was peppered with disfiguring black spots under a noticeable layer of dust. As for the bed she’s currently reclining on... the sheets are scratchy and rough under her back, so rough that she can feel them reddening her pale skin already. It's entirely beneath her, beneath them, and the worst part is, Narcissa can’t remember the last time she felt so utterly ecstatic. 

She can’t pretend she hasn’t been _happy._ In fact, the six months since her son was born have been the most joyous of her life. And it isn’t that Lucius hasn’t been attentive. Quite the reverse; he’s been more tender and devoted than even she knew he had the capacity to be, sweet and gentle and caring at every possible opportunity. 

Therein lies the problem. 

For the first nineteen years of her life, Narcissa had known she was little more than a china doll. Flawlessly made but perilously breakable, something so fragile and precious it had to be kept in a glass case. She hadn’t minded. Dolls like that are special, cherished, beautiful. Better a pretty, pleasing piece of furniture to be taken care of than a hissing wildcat like one sister or a blackened scorch mark like the other. It wasn’t until Lucius, until the bruising press of wanting hands on her delicate hipbones and hungry teeth sinking into unblemished skin, that she’d realised she wasn’t breakable, far from it. But now, when he touches her at all, it’s with the same careful deliberation as when he handles the fragile dark artifacts that have been rotting in the cellars of the manor since their grandparents were babies. She sees the same dutiful expression on his face, the same detached respect for something he knows is objectively lovely, but has become so accustomed to that it no longer stirs him. And Narcissa will burn every last inch of their beautiful home to the ground before she allows herself to be placed neatly back into a protective cage, to be kept only to look at, never to touch. 

Of course, when she’d finally reached her breaking point and brought it up with her husband, he hadn’t for a moment admitted he was at fault. Still, Narcissa knows he wouldn't have agreed to this idea nearly as easily if there hadn't known she was right. He’d been a little resistant regardless, but she’d known full well that there was excitement bubbling below his surface of cool composure from the moment the suggestion had left her lips. 

There’s no sign of that cool composure now. Or of the dutiful gentleness that’s been pushing Narcissa to the edge for weeks. Lucius is inhabiting his character completely; the important, imperious aristocrat, his eyes and hands raking over her appraisingly as if she’s a cheap bit of skirt he’s deigned to pick up off the street corner. It’s exactly what she wanted. 

He’s hardly spoken to her since he arrived, nothing more than a condescending greeting and curt instructions to discard her tasteless clothes before he pushed her backwards onto this horrible bed and began to communicate with his hands, not his mouth. Narcissa was keyed up before he so much as locked the door behind him- a few minutes of his hands on her skin and this heavy, crackling silence are enough to have her practically panting with need. But perhaps a Knockturn Alley whore would be bold enough to... 

Her hands come up to dance over his shoulders, still clothed, and she luxuriates in the solidity of him. 

“You seem so tense,” she coos. It sounds a little ridiculous to her own ears, but maybe she’s overthinking things- the hungry expression on Lucius’s face suggests that he has no complaints. Narcissa takes a short, sharp breath and tries again. “Is your wife not taking care of you?” 

He stiffens a little, his hands pausing in their journey over her ribcage. For just a moment, the arrogance in his face falters, before just as quickly melting and reforming into a malicious smirk. 

“No.” Lucius draws the word out with cruel amusement, his large hands resuming their progress and coming up to palm her breasts. He isn’t gentle now, not at all. “It’s difficult, actually. Having such a frigid bitch tied around my neck. Weighing me down.” Want twists in Narcissa’s stomach, sharp and hot and overwhelming. “She barely even lets me touch her. Would never let me...” 

Instead of finishing his sentence, he swoops down on her like a particularly vicious bird of prey. His tongue and teeth are hot and practiced on her nipple and Narcissa allows herself a completely undignified moan, caught up in the fantasy of Lucius’s cold little wife who somehow is and isn’t her. She imagines being a wife who has ever had a moment’s anxiety about her husband’s fidelity, feels the pleasing warmth of superiority flowing though her as she runs her fingers through the hair of the man who has never made her doubt his loyalty. Imagines really being his mistress, his _whore,_ set up in a secret little flat to spend her whole life waiting for him and his presents and his prick. They’ve barely begun and she’s already craving so much more. 

“Show me,” she begs. “All of it, everything. Everything she won’t let you do, do it to me.” 

To her consternation, Lucuis pulls his mouth away as quickly as it had latched on. 

“Perhaps I ought to make something clear.” He kisses her on the mouth instead, harsh and almost cold. When they break apart he tucks her hair behind her ear with a smile that’s just a touch too sharp to be tender. “You aren’t here to make suggestions. You’re here to open your legs and give me somewhere wet and tight to stick my cock. Why are you here?” 

“I’m here to open my legs and give you somewhere wet and tight to stick your cock,” she repeats, her voice thready. She wants it so badly her head is swimming. 

“Clever girl.” The tone of Lucius’s voice is beyond condescending but she still feels her cheeks flush at the praise. 

“Please,” she murmurs, almost without meaning to. It earns the flesh of her upper thigh a sharp pinch. 

“Now, now,” he chastises her. “What did I just say, sweetheart? I don’t like greedy sluts.” 

She didn’t see him reach for it but when cold metal touches her inner thigh, Narcissa knows exactly what it is. The silver head is slithering over her skin until it presses, heavy and cool and heart-stopping, against her bare cunt. 

“There we are,” Lucius murmurs, his eyes fixed between her legs. “Isn’t it nicer when you let me decide? Very nice. Very nice indeed.” 

If she were really the streetwalking slut she’s pretending to be, she wouldn’t know what he wanted from her. But Narcissa does know and she wants it just as much, far too much to fake ignorance. She works her cunt against the snake’s head, hips writhing wantonly as she tries to find the perfect position to make the solid metal rub- _yes_. 

The sharp intake of breath from above makes her shudder, bear herself harder against his cane. She's obscenely wet and if she can make herself come like this, her husband will be so pleased, so pleased, _so_ pleased... 

Falling apart without Lucius inside her isn’t something she’s used to. Physical pleasure had been an entirely forbidden realm before he’d touched her for the first time, and she’s hasn’t felt much need to explore it without him since. Sometimes he’ll watch with dark eyes as she touches herself, or mercilessly tease her clit to see how quickly she can come with no other stimulation, but it’s still a peculiar sensation, not having his fingers or his cock or his tongue. Right now, though, it scarcely matters; the blazing intensity of his eyes boring into her as she comes is making her gasp almost as much as having his prick inside her ever does. 

“Exquisite.” 

When he pulls the cane away, Narcissa feels briefly, shamefully bereft. Or she does until he lifts it to her lips and, without needing to be asked, she takes the head of the snake into her mouth. Her tongue darts between its fangs, sliding to the smooth surface where metal joins with wood. The taste of herself is familiarly arousing, even when tainted by the strange sharpness of silver. It’s a wrench when Lucius pulls it out of her mouth, and she’s so drunk on pleasure and him that she doesn’t think before she scrambles up off her back, reaching for him. She wants his clothes off, wants the sensation of his bare skin against hers. What she gets is the heavy thwack of wood against her chest, pushing her back into the bed at an odd angle. It hurts and her muscles are straining and there was enough force behind the blow for her to be sure she’ll be decorated with a pink stripe tomorrow. A needy whine escapes her lips, she can’t help it. 

“How many times? You aren’t in charge here, sweetheart. Who’s in charge here?” Not for the first time, not even for the first time tonight, Narcissa is overwhelmed by the sheer force of personality emanating from the man she married. 

“You are,” she whispers, her cheeks scarlet. 

“And why am I in charge here?” 

Narcissa shakes her head mutely, unsure of the right answer. His smile is wide and smug and so cruel it makes her chest ache. 

“Because I'm. The. One. With. The. Fucking. Money.” She’ll say this for her husband; he always comes prepared. When he pats his trouser pocket, coins jingle and Narcissa truly thinks she might faint. His words are dripping with derision and when he tosses his cane to the floor with a clatter and she twitches with surprise, his smile is too. Almost lazily, he clicks his fingers and gestures to the floor. “Come on, on your knees.” 

It’s demeaning. Utterly humiliating. And she’s never sunk to her knees as quickly as she does now, scrambling off the bed and practically falling to the ground in front of him. She can see how hard he is, she can _see_. Every atom of her wants, wants, wants. 

“Actually, I’m beginning to think that the money might not matter after all,” Lucius muses, one of his hands coming to rest on top of her head as the other unfastens his trousers. “I think you’d do this for free, wouldn’t you? I’ve never seen a woman so eager to have a cock shoved down her throat. Or is that all part of the service?” 

Narcissa is grateful that he doesn’t seem to expect a reply; she could no more form a coherent sentence right now than she could fly. In fact, given how elated she feels, flying might be easier. 

“Go on then,” he says mockingly. “Open wide.” 

Some women, she knows, aren’t overly fond of this particular activity. But despite- or perhaps because of- the fact that her experience in this area is limited entirely to the cock currently in her mouth, she doesn’t really understand why. Perhaps not everyone enjoys the sensation of a rough hand yanking at their hair. Perhaps not everyone gets a delicious thrill from destroying the composure of an arrogant, unruffled man with just the heat of their mouth. She's certain not everyone likes being forced to choke, the first moment of pure panic as it becomes impossible to breathe properly. The poor things. 

“You've really got a mouth worth paying for, haven't you?” Lucius bites out. Narcissa whines with pleasure at the praise, only to splutter as he takes matters into his own hands and thrusts roughly into her mouth. “Fuck. So much easier than trying to get the bitch I married to do this. It's hours of cajoling to get her mouth open and then it's two minutes of half-hearted sucking before she’s whining about her jaw aching or her knees bruising. But you... all I have to do is snap my fingers.” 

Desire has taken over Narcissa’s body so completely that she can hardly think. It’s lucky that Lucius has taken it upon himself to do most of the work, his hand fisted in her hair as he well and truly fucks her mouth, because whimpering and gagging are about the limit of her capabilities right now. Her eyes are stinging with tears and that only makes the thrumming lust spike, hotter and harder. The last thing in the world she wants is for him to stop, so when he pulls out of her mouth with what can only be described as a snarl, her answering whine is desperate and completely undignified. 

“I’m not finished with you yet,” he tells her raggedly. 

“I could get you hard again,” she offers with a pout. For a moment before he catches himself, the smile on his face is pure, unadulterated Lucius, ready to indulge the wife he adores in whatever she happens to want. But then his face sharpens and tightens and the arrogant stranger is back again. 

“I’m quite sure you could. That’s what you’re for, isn’t it? That’s why I bought you.” 

Maybe his words make her heart thump and her cunt clench so intensely because there’s a little grain of truth in there. He _did_ buy her, body and soul. Her family name is older but the Black coffers hadn’t been exactly bursting at the seams when Lucius had swept in and paid her father handsomely to exchange ownership of his youngest daughter. What is a wife if not a whore you can take to dinner parties and get pregnant? The idea makes her head spin. She’s only any good to him for her body, as on object to fuck and use. Not something fragile to lock away and stare at. Circe, if he touches her now, she could come again in seconds. Trying impossibly hard not to moan, Narcissa nods so vigorously her neck hurts. She understands. She knows what she is. 

With a supremely self-satisfied smile, Lucius takes hold of her hair again and pulls her to her feet. 

“But if I came down your pretty throat and you had to use all your lovely whore’s tricks to get me hard again, I’d have to wait to feel this around my cock, wouldn’t I?” The hand that’s not in her hair slides between her legs. “And I have no intention of doing that, sweetheart.” 

No, waiting would be _awful_ , when he’s so hard and slick and her cunt is achingly empty and it’s so easy for him to just push her backwards onto the bed and part her thighs and make her feel whole again. She’s never quite herself when Lucius isn’t inside her; at least, not as much herself as she is now, with his long fingers leaving indentations in her hips and the sound of his harsh breathing in her ear. His shirt stops her from sliding her hands over his skin but she can still feel the heat of him. It feels right, Lucius dressed while she’s naked, because he’s important, he’s real, and she’s just a cunt and a mouth and hands and breasts, she’s just for his pleasure, that’s her job, he _said_ so. 

Narcissa is lost in the slap of skin on skin, the obscene noises that are all her fault because she gets so _wet_ for him, the harsh keening noises that must be coming from her mouth, the shuddering, juttering intensity of her husband’s fingers rubbing almost too hard because the snarl on his face tells her he needs release so badly but would die of shame if he left her unsated. Not that she could ever have enough of this. 

“I’m going to keep you,” he rasps. His face is painted with exertion and knowing he’s needed this like she has makes a shudder roll through her like a wave. “You should never have let me inside you, you stupid bitch. Because now I know how divine this tight little cunt of yours feels and I’m going to have it again and again and again and again...” 

Each repetition is punctuated by a particularly harsh thrust and it’s too much, far too much. It _hurts_ , the way that she contracts around Lucius’s cock is so intense that, in a moment of savagery, she hopes it hurts him too. Her hands tear at him, scrabbling and scratching and gaining no purchase whatsoever through the barrier of his clothes so she keeps going until she finds his hair between her fingers and she _pulls._ It works. He needn’t have concerned himself so much with her pleasure; if she wasn’t still trembling from her orgasm, the sensation of Lucius spilling into her, using her, marking her (with a guttural noise that Narcissa will replay any future time she finds herself alone in bed without him) would have been enough to push her over the edge. She hadn’t quite realised how deep she’d drifted into the strange place in her head that only lets her think about him, and them, and the way their bodies move together until she’s coming to the surface, breathless and gasping. 

There’s a tiny whine that wants to escape the back of her throat as Lucius pulls out of her, but Narcissa has regathered enough self-control to bite it back. Instead, she gives a pleased wordless murmur as her husband rolls onto his side and wraps his arms around her, his mouth urgent and affectionate against her cheek and jaw. 

“Darling...” is all he says, and yet Narcissa hums in agreement because she knows precisely what he means. Her hand strokes up and down his chest possessively and she curls into him tightly, their bodies as close as possible. “You’re... you’re quite alright?” 

She won’t let him pull away to look at her properly, but she can guess from the tone of his voice exactly which expression of concern is on his face. It’s understandable; in physical terms, that wasn’t even nearly as rough as they can get, but mentally Narcissa feels exhausted. Exhausted and... 

“Euphoric,” she purrs, and she can physically feel him relax. His hands start threading through her hair and she kisses his neck, relishing his closeness. 

“I would tell you I’d leave the money on the dressing table but I’m afraid this _establishment_ hasn’t seen fit to furnish us with one.” Merlin, she loves him. 

“That would imply you were leaving, would it not?” Reluctantly, Narcissa sits up a little, to make sure he gets the full effect of her disappointed pout. “And here I’d rather hoped you might stay and get your money’s worth.” 

The words “cat”, “got” and “cream” come to mind when she looks at Lucius’s face. 

“I believe I can manage that.” He slinks his arm around her waist again and squeezes. “Although these sheets are so utterly hellish, I’m almost not sure it’s worth it.” 

“All part of the charm, darling. You can’t fuck a filthy slut on lovely silk sheets,” she tells him, lazily brushing his hair out of his eyes and she’s unable to stop herself smiling when he grins at her. 

“Oh, I think you’ll find I can. And do, in fact. Fairly frequently.” 

Narcissa shoots a playful glare at him, and pretends she isn't thrilled. 

When she catches sight of herself in the dirty mirror, her mouth is still a sticky, brazen pink. It’s easy to understand why men are supposed to like this sort of thing; she looks warmer than usual, available and appealing. And yet, the slut staring back at her is still undeniably Narcissa Malfoy, perfect wife, perfect hostess, perfect mother. She’s never really thought of the two co-existing before, but they do. For him. 

Only Lucius has ever been allowed to see both, to witness cold and composed Mrs Malfoy meld with needy, wanting Narcissa. That, she thinks, is what being a wife is. Only Lucius ever will. 


End file.
